


A Simple Twist of Fate

by Aragarna



Category: White Collar
Genre: Case Fic, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aragarna/pseuds/Aragarna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter gets a lead on an old case, accidently unravelling the consequences of one of Neal's early thefts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for a [prompt](http://collarcorner.livejournal.com/33433.html?thread=1184153#t1184153) posted by [](http://scarym1.livejournal.com/profile)[scarym1](http://scarym1.livejournal.com/) at Collar Corner. I hope you'll like it! As last month's round was "Season One", this is set sometime early in the show. Many thanks to the always awesome [](http://anodyneer.livejournal.com/profile)[anodyneer](http://anodyneer.livejournal.com/) for the beta!

  
_It is the darkest point of the night. A shadow appears on a roof and slides down a fire escape. Carrying the precious loot of its larceny, it vanishes through the night, oblivious of the wheel of destiny it just set in motion._

 

 

**Chapter One**

  
Neal was particularly late that morning. Not that Peter really bothered him about his work hours when they weren’t actively following leads, but still, Neal thought it’d be better to arrive as discreetly as possible and pretend he had been busy working at his desk all along. He sat down, put his hat on top of a stack of files in the left corner of his desk, and proceeded to check his email box. Nothing standing out in capital letters announcing he had missed the apocalypse. It’d be a dull and quiet day of paperwork.

But Neal hadn’t been sitting at his desk for more than five minutes when Peter suddenly appeared and stopped by his desk. Bracing himself for a lecture on work hours, Neal warily looked up from his screen. But Peter’s sheepish look reassured him immediately. He knew that face. Peter had a promising lead on a case, which meant investigation, action, interrogation.

“Neal,” Peter grinned. “Glad you could make it.”

Neal smiled innocently. “New case?”

“Actually, old case,” Peter said, dropping the file in Neal’s hands. “Thirteen years that I’ve been waiting for this one to resurface.”

Neal opened the file, and his heart missed a bit. He was holding a large photo of a painting by Roy Lichtenstein. It wasn’t necessarily one of Lichtenstein’s most iconic works – though the style was unmistakable – but Neal recognized it immediately. He didn’t need to read the syllabus attached to the photograph, he knew exactly what it was. It was a painting from Lichtenstein’s 1986 series, _Imperfect painting_ , which Neal had stolen a long time ago, back when he was still a rookie thief and was trying his hand at rather easy targets, under Mozzie’s supervision.

Summoning his best poker face, Neal slowly looked up from the file. “Lichtenstein, huh?” he asked, as casually as possible.

Peter grinned. He seemed to be in a _very_ good mood today, which Neal wasn’t exactly sure how to interpret.

“Do you know where it was stolen from?” Peter asked.

Neal’s anxiety spiked. Was that a trick question? What did Peter know? He opened his mouth, but blanked. He didn’t even remember where he’d stolen it from.

“The Newman gallery!” Peter said with a large grin. “That’s where Elizabeth used to work. This is the theft that brought us together.”

Neal swallowed the lump in his throat. So it was the Newman gallery. “I – I didn’t know that. I mean, I didn’t know which gallery Elizabeth worked at.”

“And finally, after all this time, we may finally be able to recover the painting.”

“Right…”

Neal’s brain was working at full speed, trying to remember what he – or Mozzie – had done with the painting. Had they fenced it back then? Did they keep it? Could it be that Mozzie just fenced it and it triggered one of Peter’s watch lists?

He cleared his voice. “Hum, do we have a suspect?”

Peter nodded and handed Neal a second file. “Thomas Roberts, fence. He’s been on our radars for a long time, but we never got anything concrete on him. Until now.”

Neal looked at the file. He had never heard of a Thomas Roberts. Which meant two things: The guy must be good, and hopefully he had no connection to Neal.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asked.

“Word on the street is that Roberts is selling the painting. We’re going in as potential buyers.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Neal nodded. He needed to get in touch with Mozzie as soon as possible, and for that he needed to get rid of Peter, but without raising any alarm. He got up.

“Would you excuse me,” he said. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

Peter nodded. Neal tried to ignore the heavy look on his back as he exited the bullpen and headed toward the bathroom.

 

\-----------------------------------------

  
He entered the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and looked under the door of each individual toilet. Assured he was alone, he dialed Mozzie’s number.

At the last ring before voicemail, Mozzie picked up. “Please enter your code.”

“Moz, I don’t have time for your games,” Neal replied quickly.

“Oh you think safety is a game?”

Neal rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. “Look, I need to know. Did you fence a Lichtenstein recently?”

“You know we can’t discuss this over the phone!” Mozzie protested.  He paused, and the silence on the line had Neal’s heart racing again.

 “I haven’t seen a Lichtenstein in a long time…,” Mozzie finally said. “It’s all I can say.”

Neal breathed.

“Do you remember _Imperfect Painting_?” he asked.

“Not over the phone!”

“Moz, please, tell me you –‘

Neal stopped short as the door opened. An agent came in.

Switching gears in a second, Neal took a fawning tone. “Sure, Honey. Bowling Green, noon. Please don’t be late.”

And he hung up. He shot the agent one of his trademark smiles, and walked back to the White Collar office.

 

\-----------------------------------------

  
Neal looked anxiously around for any sign of Mozzie. He sat on their usual bench, and hoped it wouldn’t take too long for his friend to show up. The last thing he wanted was to make Peter suspicious of his whereabouts, at least until he was sure he couldn’t be linked to the painting. Luckily, materializing out of nowhere, Mozzie appeared just after him.

“I saw a mocking bird in the park,” he said as he sat next to Neal.

“Do we really need to exchange codes,” Neal asked, annoyed. “Don’t you see it’s me?”

“I see someone that seems to match Neal Caffrey’s description. That doesn’t mean it _is_ you.”

Neal ignored him and continued the previously interrupted conversation instead. “So _, Imperfect Painting_? Do you remember?”

“Of course, I remember. The Newman gallery. Not your cleanest win. Nor the Suit’s finest investigation. So I guess that still gives us one on him.”

“Wait, you knew?”

“Of course. Mrs. Suit told me how they met. I connected the dots. Be assured that I didn’t say anything.”

“Tell me you got rid of it a long time ago,” Neal asked bluntly.

“I did,” Mozzie said in a murmur, sending alarmed looks around. “Why are you asking all those questions?”

“Peter is about to take down the fence that is currently in possession of the painting. Do you know a Thomas Roberts?”

“That doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Any chance he could lead back to us?”

“It was thirteen years ago, Neal. I’m sure that painting has been bought and sold half a dozen times. It’s a miracle that it’s still in New York.”

Neal released a large sigh of relief. It seemed they were in the clear for that one. He leaned back against the bench and a small smile appeared at the corner of his lips.

“So we’re the reason Peter and Elizabeth met,” he said with amusement. “Talk about a funny twist of fate.”

 

 

 

**Thirteen Years Ago**

  
Peter pushed the door and entered the Newman gallery. It was a small downtown gallery, with only a dozen paintings hanging off the walls. Mostly twentieth century modern art, from what he could tell. Definitely one of those high end galleries, not one where one would expose their grandfather’s “art” – unless your grandfather was Picasso.

Two forensics officers were collecting evidence around the empty space where the stolen painting had likely been on display. Standing just behind them, a woman with long dark hair was keeping watch, her arms crossed on her chest. She turned around when she heard Peter come in. His gaze caught hers, and the intensity of her deep blue eyes caught his breath.

Peter blinked, and, setting aside the trouble he felt when their eyes met, he regained his composure, and walked to her.

“Special Agent Peter Burke,” he introduced himself, showing his badge. “I am investigating the theft of the Lichtenstein painting,” he added, pointing at the empty space.  
She walked directly to him and gave him a quick once over. She exuded a certain confidence. Despite her high heels, Peter was still towering over her, but she didn’t seem intimidated in the least.

“What can I do for you, agent?” she asked.

“Tell me who robbed the place?”

It had blurted out of his mouth. Peter blushed. He was making a fool of himself. What was wrong with him today?

She tilted her head, and a brief smile lightened her face. “Wouldn’t that be your job to do?”

“Sorry,” he said quickly, retrieving his notepad and pen from his jacket’s pocket to give himself some countenance. “So, I’d need the statements from all the persons working here.”

“That would be me and Paul. And Mr. Newman, of course. But today it’s only me.” She waved at the forensics agents. “They made us close the gallery. So, I’m just keeping an eye on them to make sure they don’t mess around.”

Peter nodded. “Let’s start with you, then. What’s your name?”

“Elizabeth Mitchell.” She pointed at a small desk in the back of the room. “Why don’t we take a seat?”

As he followed her to the desk, Peter couldn’t help but notice her perfectly defined calves, the curves of her hips enhanced by her classy suit, the way her hair fell gently on her shoulders.

She sat behind the desk, crossed her legs and readjusted her suit vest. She tilted her head and gave him an engaging smile.

“Are you the manager?” Peter asked, taking the opposite seat.

She laughed lightly. “Oh no, Mr. Newman is the manager. I’m the assistant manager.”

Peter felt he was slightly blushing. “Of course. So, why don’t you tell me what you know?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell. I arrived this morning at 8:30, as usual, to open the gallery, and this is when I noticed the painting was gone.” She waved in its direction. “It’s kind of hard to miss. So I called the police immediately.”

Peter took note to later check the police logs, though he admitted to himself he’d be very pained if it turned out Mrs. Mitchell – or was it Miss? – was guilty.

 

“Who was the last person to close last night?”

“I was. I didn’t really pay attention to the time, but the gallery closes at 7, so it was probably around 8 pm.”

Peter took note of all those timeline points. As the interview went on, Peter did his best to stay focused on his notes. Each time he looked up and their eyes met, he felt a strange unsettling knock in his stomach. Elizabeth Mitchell was smart, and witty, not to mention beautiful. And gracious enough not to show any embarrassment in front of his own awkwardness.

He wrote down the addresses of Mr. Newman and Paul, the sales assistant.

“One last thing, Mrs. Mitchell, -“

“It’s Miss,” she said with a smile that made his heart pound.

“Miss Mitchell, did you notice anything or anyone unusual in the past few days? A client that seemed interested in the painting, or someone who came here to look around?”

She took her time to answer. “Not that I recall,” she said finally. “But you might want to check with Paul. He mentioned a ‘weird little guy’ – his words – that came by a couple times last week.”

Probably someone casing the place. Peter would have to see if they could get a description. He took a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Miss Mitchell.

“Give me call,” he said. “I mean, if anything comes back to you. About the case, I mean.”

Now he was making a fool of himself again, but she simply smiled at him. “I will, Agent Burke.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

**Chapter Two**

 

Finally, after all this time, Peter was looking at the long elusive painting. Neal, who was posing as his authenticator, was taking his time to authenticate the painting. They had met with Roberts in the backroom of an abandoned shop. The place had a limited number of exits, which made the positioning of the FBI perimeter rather easy. The painting was set on a large table. Roberts was standing calmly next to Neal. He seemed sure enough of the value of his piece.

Finally, Neal stood up, and nodded in Peter’s direction. It wasn’t a forgery.

“In that case, I think we have a deal,” Peter said, keeping his eagerness in check. He showed Roberts the briefcase with the FBI cash. The fence quickly checked the contents, and looked satisfied.

“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen,” he said.

Peter smirked. Neal was expertly rolling the painting to put it back in the tube Roberts had brought it in, to secure it fast, before the imminent FBI burst.

Just when they were about to part ways, they heard loud footsteps in the corridor. The fence was quick to figure out he was made. He turned back to face Peter and pulled a gun.

“You did this!”

 The door burst open, giving way to half a dozen FBI agents in full gear. Neal safely took a step back, while Peter skillfully reached for the fence’s gun and took him down in a fraction of second.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Peter walked to the coffee machine, sighing in frustration.

“Something’s wrong?” Neal asked.

Peter made a face as he poured himself a large cup of coffee. “He’s not talking.”

“Roberts? We got the painting, what more do you need?”

“I was hoping to be able to trace back all the way to the original thief.”

Neal swallowed hard. “Isn’t the statute of limitation up?”

“It is,” Peter admitted. “That means the thief can’t get charged. That doesn’t mean I can’t investigate.”

“What’s the point?”

“Catching the bad guys, eventually. We can’t pin every crime on them, but that doesn’t mean we don’t know about those crimes. Sometimes a crime would lead to another. You know how those things go.”

Neal winced. “Right…”

“And in that particular case, that would have given me some closure.”

“Well, thirteen years is a long time, Peter. Maybe you actually caught him, and you don’t even know.”

“Maybe…”

“Come on, wouldn’t he deserve a pass for that one? After all, you should be grateful for that theft.”

Peter shook his head in disbelief. “A pass?”

Peter’s disbelief suddenly turned to suspicion. He stared at Neal, who tried to look as innocent as possible. But Peter could read through Neal’s best poker faces. He couldn’t always tell what Neal was hiding, but he knew the young man enough to know exactly when he was hiding something. And truth be told, Neal seemed way too proud of himself to look convincingly innocent right now.

“Don’t tell me…” Peter choked. “Oh no you didn’t…” He couldn’t believe this.

“I’m just saying, you should thank the thief for that little twist of fate. Admit it, you’re happy that theft happened.”

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but couldn’t find anything to say. Of course, he did, but he wasn’t going to admit it, and especially not to Neal. Why on Earth did it have to be Neal, of all the criminals in the city? That was just his luck…

He sent his CI a killer look, who grinned smugly in return. Peter ignored him and walked back to his office.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Peter was parking his car in front of his house when he got an idea. He took out his phone to call El.

“Miss Mitchell?” he asked, using his most professional voice. “This is Agent Burke.”

Elizabeth immediately played along. “Oh, Agent Burke, have there been any new development in the case?”

Grabbing his briefcase and his jacket with his free hand, Peter got out of his car and walked to his house.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. “I am pleased to report that we recovered the painting.”

“Really?” El peeped on the other side of the line. “Tell me all about it.”

He climbed the front steps and pushed open the door. After hanging up his coat and putting down briefcase, he opened his arms to receive El’s embrace. They kissed affectionately.

“By the way, it’s Mrs. Burke now,” Elizabeth said with a wink.

“Oh, Mrs. Burke… Congratulations. Your husband is a very lucky man.”

“That’s what he says…”

Elizabeth briskly broke their embrace and, taking him by the hand, made him sit on the sofa with her. “The suspense is killing me! Tell me all about it. It’s been what, thirteen years?”

Peter nodded. “Yes, thirteen years. Can you actually believe it’s been that long?”

“Hon! Please, just tell me.” El protested, seeing right through his game.

“Well, there isn’t much to say. Word on the street was that this fence we’ve been pursuing for some time was selling a Lichtenstein. It turns out it was our Lichtenstein. Come by our office tomorrow, we can return it to its rightful owner together.”

Elizabeth was drinking in every word. “And did the fence tell you who stole it?” she asked, hopeful.

Peter sighed exaggeratedly. “Unfortunately, no. It’s a dead end. Thirteen years is a long time. The trail got cold.”

Elizabeth’s disappointed look was adorably touching. Peter passed an arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know who did it…” he said with a voice that was supposed to sound mysterious.

Elizabeth perked up. “Tell me!”

Peter gave her a long meaningful look, a smirk at the corner of his lips. Elizabeth frowned, and suddenly understood.

“Oh! No. Don’t tell me… Neal? It all goes back to Neal?”

Peter nodded. “Yep.”

“Is he in trouble?”

Peter shrugged. “It’s way pass the statute of limitation. But he’s going to be so insufferable about it…” he added, shaking his head in anticipated exasperation.

Elizabeth burst into laugher. “Neal. I can’t believe it…”

They leaned back, and she put her head on his shoulder. They remained cuddled against each other for a while.

“The Lichtenstein. It takes us back…” El said with nostalgia.

 

 

 

**Thirteen Years Ago**

  
Elizabeth hadn’t heard back from the FBI in a couple days. She had been hoping Agent Burke would call her. Because she was worried about the painting, that is. She had been trying very hard to remember something, anything, that could potentially help the case, and thus justify her calling him. Unfortunately, the past week was suddenly appearing too terribly normal.

She took the business card out of her purse and flipped it in her hands. The Agent had made quite an impression on her. There was a definitive charm in his demeanor, and in his smile. He was a strange mix of a certain self-confidence, probably coming from the natural authority of his profession, and a visible but adorable awkwardness, which, Elizabeth suspected, she was the reason for. But unlike other men that found her attractive, the agent didn’t try to flirt with her. On the contrary, he did his best to remain professional and discard his turmoil.

The ringing phone startled her. It was, as a matter of fact, the lovely Agent Burke. There were some new developments in the case, and he needed her to come by the office.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

She had barely stepped foot outside of the elevator when the agent materialized in front of her.

“Miss Mitchell,” he welcomed her, with his deep and gentle voice as his warm chocolate eyes enveloped her in his kind gaze. “This way.”

Elizabeth followed him to a small conference room where walls and tables were made of glass. He held the door for her, and then a seat, before taking the seat in front of her. He took his time to open a folder, as well as his notepad.

“So,” he said, finally, looking back at her. “Unfortunately the surveillance videos of the gallery were tampered with and we have no recording of the night of the theft. So I needed to confirm with you certain things about your whereabouts at the time of the theft. You left the gallery around 8 pm, is that correct?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“And then what did you do?”

“I went directly home. I live close enough, so I walked.”

“Did you stop anywhere?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

He paused a moment, and looked at his notes. Could it be possible that he had some information? Did she forget something? Was she in trouble?

“Did you meet with anyone that night?” he asked. His tone was perfectly neutral, but she noticed a slight blush at the small of his neck.

She shook her head again. “No, I didn’t, Agent Burke.”

“Did you call anyone? Someone that could confirm you were home at the time of the theft.”

Elizabeth could barely restrain a chuckle. Was he only checking her whereabouts for the purpose of the case?

She tried to remember. “Yes, I think I called my mother.”

He nodded, and noted something in his notepad. Probably something about checking her phone log, like they do in Law and Order. Looking satisfied, he got up.

“Thank you for your help, Miss Mitchell.”

“That’s all?” she asked, surprised, as he walked her back to the elevator.

“Actually…” he started. His eyes had suddenly become elusive and he was blushing again. “Have you tried that Italian place, La Cucina De Tua Nonna? It isn’t too far from the gallery.”

That caught Elizabeth suddenly off guard. The elevator doors opened, and he held them for her.

“Their red sauce is terrific,” he said, as she got inside the elevator. “You should try it sometime.”

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Elizabeth looked through the window of her third floor apartment. The municipal utilities van was still parked across the street, like the day before, and the day before that. Was she getting paranoid, that she was feeling she was being followed?

She reached for her phone on the wall and dialed Peter Burke’s number. As it rang, she walked back to the window. The van was still there.

“Agent Burke.”

“Hi, Agent Burke, this is Elizabeth Mitchell.”

“Oh Miss Mitchell,” he echoed, in a much softer voice. “I, hum. Is everything okay?”

“It’s probably nothing, but I think I’m being followed.”

The line remained silent.

“Agent Burke?”

“Yes, yes, I’m here. You’re being followed?”

“That’s right. I mean, I think. There’s a municipal van parked across the street from my apartment. But it doesn’t look like they’re doing anything. It’s just odd…”

“I see…”

At the end of the street, someone honked. And the echo of the honk reached through the phone.

Elizabeth looked at her device with a frown. Was the agent…

“Agent Burke, are you in that van?”

He mumbled something inaudible then cleared his throat. “I can’t discuss the case Miss Mitchell, I’m sorry.” He paused. “But don’t worry, you’re not in trouble,” he added quickly before hanging up.

Elizabeth was taken aback. There were only two possible reasons why Agent Burke was following her. Either he thought she had something to do with the Lichtenstein theft, or…

She bit her lips.

Either he was adorable but a terrible flirt, or a terrifying sociopath. Though from their previous encounters, she’d lean more in favor of the former.

Smiling, she hung back the phone and went to retrieve an old piece of cardboard at the back of her closet. She grabbed the marker that was in the drawer in the kitchen and wrote in large letters: I LOVE ITALIAN.

She put on her coat and shoes and headed back downstairs, hoping she wasn’t about to make a terrible fool of herself.

Standing on the sidewalk, she brandished her sign in the direction of the van. Her heart was racing in her chest.

After a few seconds, the back door of the vehicle opened and Agent Burke came out. He crossed the street to join her, looking vaguely embarrassed, but with a delicious smile illuminating his face. As he laid his eyes on her, they sparkled with a tender glow.

They stood there, looking at each other, almost touching, his finger brushing hers.

“It’s a little early for dinner,” he said finally.

“I guess we’ll just walk very slowly then.”

His smile broadened. He bent over, and delicately, he cupped her chin between his hands and kissed her. Tentative at first, then, as she responded, he became more assured. He was a much better kisser than a flirt.

Smiling at each other, they finally parted, and hand in hand, walked in direction of the restaurant.

 

 

The End.

 

 


End file.
